Just Leave, page 7
So what are you waiting for? Grab your pecker and get on with it.
He pouted and shook his head again. He hated when Grandpa talked to him like that. It was so coarse and so angry, like he couldn’t stand the sight of his disappointing grandson and had to berate him for simply existing.
Look, boy, you want to spend the rest of your life getting walked all over, you be my guest. I ain’t wastin’ my time trying to turn a yellow daisy into a red-blooded man.
“I can do it!” he insisted, loudly enough that he jumped at the sound of his voice and looked quickly around to make sure no one noticed him.
They didn’t. They never did. He certainly didn’t.
The man he followed laughed and joked along with his new friends. He wore jeans and a tight t-shirt underneath a flannel sweater. His beard was fuller, the killer noticed. A little grayer than he remembered but just as well-groomed. The killer wondered if he was dating another hairstylist. His old girlfriend had been a hairstylist. The killer remembered her. Sammie. She was nice. She brought him cookies sometimes.
You keep quiet for now, boy, Grandpa said. Now that he was committed to this course of action, Grandpa was no longer sarcastic. Finish your drink and bide your time. He’ll have to move on eventually. When he does, you follow him, and when you can take him without being seen, you take him. You remember what I taught you?
“Long choke, not short choke. Short chokes leave bruises.”
A nearby couple looked questioningly up from their table and Grandpa snapped, You want to turn yourself in or something, boy? Keep your fool mouth shut and calm the hell down. In a softer voice, he added. You’ll get him. Just be patient and stay focused.
“Focused,” he said quietly.
Boy, Grandpa warned.
He nodded slightly and kept his fool mouth shut, just like Grandpa told him. Grandpa was always right. Grandpa cared about him.
He finished his drink and then ordered another. He sat back and pretended to watch the football game, but his focus never left the bearded man in the flannel sweater. He waited until the game was over, then joined with the crowd of irate locals in berating the moronic referees who had allowed the visiting team to commit so many fouls on their way to an obviously bullshit victory over the home team.
He waited until the bearded man stood and said his goodbyes to his friends. He called for his check and tipped the bartender generously. The bartender, a young woman of maybe twenty-five with a dynamite body and a healthy crop of long, natural blonde hair, smiled at him with the surface sweetness and barely concealed disgust of a young woman long used to the unwanted attentions of older drunk men.
He smiled and added just a touch of lust to the smile, enough to look like every other man in the bar but not so much that she would remember him. “Thank you.”
“You be safe out there, honey,” she said, and for a moment, he allowed himself to believe she actually cared.
She didn't, of course. No one did.
He stepped outside and panicked when he couldn’t see the bearded man. He looked right and left, his heartbeat quickening. No! he cried silently. I can’t lose him!
Calm your tits, boy, Grandpa replied with his usual vulgarity. He lives in Cedarwood. You know where that is.
He sighed with relief. Cedarwood was three blocks north and five blocks east. That was a right from the bar, and then another right on Larchmont Drive.
He walked along, unhurried, and in the distance saw his target turning right on Larchmont. He smiled to himself and felt his heart start to beat faster.
“Calm your tits,” he said softly.
He laughed at hearing himself repeat Grandpa’s favorite phrase. He wasn’t worried anymore. Why should he be? It was a beautiful night.
He didn’t notice the old police cruiser that pulled into the bar just as he left the parking lot. The agents inside of the cruiser paid no attention to the somewhat inebriated man choosing to do the safe thing by walking home rather than driving.
CHAPTER EIGHT
They found Ulysses Pratt at the bar, talking to a disgusted young blonde bartender and a few less disgusted but very inebriated middle-aged men. Ulysses was equally inebriated, as evidenced by his leers and occasional pawing at the bartender, who avoided his grasp with the practiced grace of a woman long accustomed to serving drinks to men.
The bartender looked up when Faith and Michael entered. Her eyes widened when she saw the FBI jackets and widened further when she saw the big German Shepherd trotting alongside them. She glanced intently at Ulysses, and when Faith and Michael drew closer, Faith understood why.
“Found him with his armpit slit wider than a whore’s gully!” he said, laughing uproariously at his own joke. “Serves him right, the communist. You know he told me once that I shouldn’t be allowed within five hundred feet of a school? All because I said that if girls didn’t want men hitting on them, then they shouldn’t dress like they cost twenty-five an hour. Can you believe that?” He grinned. “I wonder how much ol’ Jeter would charge me to have a turn at his armpit?”
He laughed again, but his friends didn’t join him this time. They saw the agents approaching and scattered, muttering excuses and keeping their eyes lowered.
Pratt looked around in confusion for a moment. When he saw Michael and Faith, his face paled and his eyes widened with fear, but he caught himself and hardened his expression. “What do you want?” he challenged them.
“Ulysses Pratt?” Faith asked.
“That ain’t none of your business,” he said. “I’m a god-fearing American, and I’m free to go where I please and say what I please.”
“I’m glad you feel that way,” Michael interjected. “Because we have some questions we’d like to ask you.”
“You can ask me right here, “Pratt said, driving his finger into the counter for emphasis. “I ain’t got no reason to go with you.”
“Here’s fine,” Faith agreed, walking to his right side while Michale remained on his left. Turk positioned himself a few feet behind Pratt’s stool and stood still, tail swishing right to left, muscles tensed like a coiled spring.
“Might be a little uncomfortable, though,” Michael added. “Seeing as you’ve made some rather interesting observations about one of our victims.”
Pratt paled another shade but remained belligerent. “I ain’t got nothing to say to you.”
“Why’s that?” Faith asked, “you didn’t mind talking to those other gentlemen.”
“Well, I ain’t talkin’ to you,” he insisted, “and you can’t arrest me because I ain’t done nothing wrong.”
Michael leaned on the counter and forced the suddenly squirrelly Ulysses Pratt to meet his gaze. “You’re drunk, Ulysses,” he said softly, “and that means you’re not thinking clearly. I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt because of that. Otherwise, I’d have to think you’re stupid, and that would mean we have to go a different way with this interview.”
Pratt looked between the two agents. Their smiles were gone now, and when he looked around for support, he found the bar had cleared out. The only other person present was the bartender, who regarded him with a look of naked disgust that contrasted sharply with her earlier flirtatious demeanor. He swallowed and tried to look superior when he said, “Well, what do you want? I ain’t got all night.”
“Can you tell me your whereabouts last night?” Faith asked.
“I ain’t got to tell you my whereabouts,” he replied. “I’m an American. I have a right to come and go as I please.”
“What about ten days ago?” Faith asked. “Did you happen to be anywhere near Fayetteville at that time?”
“Fayetteville? What would I be doing in Fayetteville?”
“That’s what I’m asking you,” Faith replied.
“Well, I ain’t got to tell you where I was,” Pratt insisted.
He reached for his drink, but Michael took it and reached over the counter, pouring it out into the drain by the well. Pratt glared at him and snapped, “Hey! You’re gonna pay for that.”
Michael set the glass down carefully and leaned forward until his face was inches from Pratt’s. Pratt shrank back until he bumped into Faith. He whirled around and saw that her expression was as hard as Michael’s. He frowned, sticking his lower lip out in a pout that would have made any toddler proud, and said, “I ain’t got to say where I was. I'm an American, and I—"
“We heard you the first time,” Faith interrupted. “Here’s the thing. Patrick Jeter and Dr. Gemma Montgomery were murdered and hidden in abandoned buildings near here. My partner and I just walked into the bar and heard something that sounded very much like gloating coming from your lips when you were talking about Jeter. It makes us think that you might not have liked Jeter very much, which makes us think that maybe you’re happy that he’s dead. Considering that he is dead, and by murder, it makes us think that maybe the man who likes joking about how he died might have killed him.”
“How do you know the cause of death?” Michael asked, cocking his head and exaggerating his confusion. "I'm pretty sure the police haven't released those details. Odd that you, of all people, would know that."
Pratt’s face blanched again when he realized his mistake. He looked wildly around for a way to escape, and Turk picked that moment to growl low in his throat. Pratt swallowed nervously but somehow managed to find a defiant look to plaster on his face. "I ain’t telling you nothing.”
Michael nodded. “Well, in that case, Mr. Pratt, you’re being detained on suspicion of murder.”
“Now wait just a—”
“Tell us all about it at the station,” Faith replied. “Unless you have something you want to tell us now that might clear you for the nights in question.”
Ulysses pouted and hung his head. “Fine. But no handcuffs. I’m an American and…”
Turk growled again, and his voice trailed off.
Michael clapped him on the shoulder and stood him up, not too roughly but not too gently either. “No handcuffs as long as you and Turk here get along. That work for you?”
He nodded, lower lip still pooched out like a child.
***
“Mr. Pratt,” Faith said patiently. “You need to understand that clamming up right now won’t help you. You’re known to talk loudly and vehemently about how much certain people deserve to die and how happy you are with the way they died. That doesn’t look good for you.”
“Speaking of which,” Michael added. “You still haven’t told us how you know Mr. Jeter’s cause of death.”
Ulysses glared between the two agents, but behind his glare, Faith could tell that he knew he was in trouble. He glanced between the two of them and said, “You have to promise me that my… source… won’t get in trouble.”
Faith and Michael shared a glance. “Actually, we don’t,” Faith replied, “and we won’t. What we will do is promise you that you will get in a lot of trouble if you don’t start talking to us right now.”
Ulysses sighed heavily. “Look, I don’t want him to get in trouble, okay? It’s not his fault.”
“Who’s fault?”
“My nephew. He’s one of the boys that found the body. He called me the night they found Patrick and told me about it. He didn’t know that I knew Patrick.”
“What’s your nephew’s name?”
“Now look,” Ulysses said, “I don’t want him to get in trouble.”
“He won’t,” Faith replied. “We need to make sure that you’re telling us the truth.”
Ulysses looked between the two of them mistrustfully, but finally sighed and said, “Gavin. He’s a good kid. He wasn’t even going to go to that storm shelter, but there’s this girl he’s sweet on. She talked him into going. Funny thing, he ended up with the other girl that went with them. Guess she was real sweet to him after he got scared by the body.”
Faith glanced at Michael. He nodded and stepped outside to follow up with Dr. Heath and confirm the boy’s identity. Ulysses glanced nervously at Turk, who sniffed around his feet, then growled irritably when he didn’t find anything. “That dog all right?”
“He’s fine,” Faith replied.
The truth was, Faith wasn’t at all confident that Turk was okay. She made a mental note to bring him by David's office when she got back to Philadelphia. Then she remembered that David was in Nevada for the foreseeable future, and her mood soured.
She pushed that thought aside. She had a suspect to interrogate.
"Ulysses," she said, leaning forward on the table, "I really want to believe you, but my partner's a really suspicious type of person."
Ulysses glanced at Michael. Michael stared stonily at the suspect, and Ulysses paled a shade.
“You need to tell us everything.” Faith said. “You need to tell us where you were on the nights of the murders so I can prove to him you weren’t there. Otherwise… well, look, Ulysses, the conversation we walked in on is pretty hard to defend.”
He sighed and hung his head. “I was at the bar,” he replied. “I’m there most nights. Hell, I’d be there every night ‘cept Sheri don’t want me in there Thursdays and Fridays no more.”
“Sheri’s the bartender?”
He nodded. “Not the one you saw tonight. That’s Carrie Ann. Sheri’s the redhead.”
Faith nodded as though that description told her everything she needed to know. She heard the door open and glanced at Michael. He nodded, and Faith suppressed a look of frustration. Gavin was indeed the hapless Ulysses’ nephew, and he had indeed called his uncle after finding the body.
“So Carrie Ann can confirm your whereabouts the nights of the murders?” she asked, “the bartender?” she added for Michael’s benefit.
Ulysses nodded, and Michael stepped outside again.
“What time did you leave the bar?”
Ulysses shrugged. “I don’t know. Some nights I stay ‘til last call. Some nights, they kick me out. Some nights, I end up passing out and wake up in the street and don't know how I got there."
He looked up at Faith and for a moment the fog was lifted from his eyes, and she could see the deep sadness that filled him. “I ain’t had an easy life," he said. "I had a wife, but she died young. I started drinking the night they buried her, and I never stopped. I have a pension, and I have a disability, and that pays me enough to make rent buy food, and keep drinking. That's all I do is drink."
At another time, Faith might have spared some sympathy for him, but right now, the best she could do was stifle her contempt. “Where did you go when you left the bar?”
“Home. ‘S where I always go. I ain’t got nowhere else to go.”
“Can anyone confirm that you went home the nights of the murders?”
He shook his head. “No. Ain’t no one but me and old Bessie. That's my truck." His shoulders straightened, and something almost like pride came to his face. "1975 Chevy one and a quarter ton. Got a four-twenty-seven big block in it and a fourteen-bolt rear axle. I guess she couldn't tell you where I was, though."
“No,” Faith agreed. “And that’s a problem, Ulysses.”
Michael walked in again and nodded once more. Carrie Ann had confirmed Ulysses was, in fact, at the bar the nights of the murders.
But that wasn’t enough to clear him. Not quite.
“Hang tight, Ulysses,” Faith said.
She and Michael stepped outside, leaving Turk with him. He started and opened his mouth to protest, but she and Michael left before he could.
They walked to the observation room, where a vaguely irritated duty sergeant watched with arms folded. Sioux City PD was not enthused to have one of their interrogation rooms and now most likely one of their jail cells co-opted by the FBI with no notice, but Faith couldn't give a shiny nickel what they thought. She had a case to solve.
“Carrie Ann says he was at the bar and left around eleven both nights,” Michael said. “One of the other bartenders was coming in, and she promised her she wouldn’t have to see Ulysses again.”
“Sheri?”
His eyes widened. “Yeah. Ulysses mention that to you?”
“Not about the late shift, just that he couldn’t go there Thursdays or Fridays anymore because of her.”
“Yeah, well, turns out Sheri’s not a big fan of strange men reaching under her bra,” Michael deadpanned.
“What a peach Ulysses is,” Faith opined.
A peach Ulysses might not have been, but that didn’t make him a murderer. Turk approached him three times in ten minutes, but all three times, he shook his head and didn't seem to notice anything incriminating.
Then again, he might not notice anything at all. Could ammonia really affect him that badly for this long?
A more frightening thought struck her. What if he had been injured when Dr. West knocked him out? She knew of people who went blind after being hit in the back of the head. Could Turk have lost his sense of smell?
A wave of hate filled her. She was going to kill him. She was going to make it hurt. She was going to make it last a long time. She had warned him not to hurt her dog. He had hurt Turk anyway, and she would make him pay.
“Faith.”
Michael’s voice jarred her from her thoughts. She turned to him, and he glanced at her arm. She looked down and saw a thin trickle of blood where she had pressed her fingernail into the skin of her shoulder. She unclasped her arms with an effort and ignored the heat rising up her neck. “We’ll let him stew for a night,” she said. “Maybe in the morning we’ll get something more from him.”
“You want him to stew overnight, you’re gonna have to book him,” the duty sergeant pointed out.
“Book him, then,” she said.
He sighed heavily, but Faith ignored him. She opened the door to the interrogation room and called, “Turk, come.”
“Wait,” Ulysses cried, “what about me?”
Faith ignored him and let the door swing shut behind her.
CHAPTER NINE
Kevin groaned and tried to sit up, but a wave of nausea forced him back to the ground. His head throbbed, and he squeezed his eyes against the pain. He took a deep breath and decided to try something easier. He opened his eyes, but they refused to budge. He stretched his lids open as widely as he could, but he saw only pitch black. He lifted his hands to his eyes to force them open, only to find that they were open. He saw only pitch black because that was all there was to see.
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